


Sing When the Dawn is Still Dark

by Scarecrowqueen



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Prophecy, What-If, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 08:57:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20525363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarecrowqueen/pseuds/Scarecrowqueen
Summary: Agnes Nutter's last prophecy is a little different, and Heaven and Hell are still out for blood.  But Aziraphale and Crowley are not yet out of options, even if the solution seem a little, well, ineffable.





	Sing When the Dawn is Still Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Falling headfirst into a new fandom! This is TV verse based, as I read the novel 20 years ago and am therefore pretty fuzzy on the details. Shout outs to the Fabulous Mr's Gaiman and Pratchett for their incredible brainchild, and to Mr's Tennant and Sheen for bringing these characters to life.

_Feed your faith and your fears will starve to death._

_\- Unknown_

_~*~_

_‘Have Faith’_

The Last prophecy is a letdown. Aziraphale tries not to be surprised, really he does. It’s only that it’s been a long, long day (week, decade, _eternity_) of letdowns and he’s honestly feeling a little put out by it all. Not that he should expect a long-dead prophetess to have ALL the answers, but well, up until this point she had definitely had all the answers and it’s a bit disappointing to know that, here at the end, they’re left on their own, save for two very innocuous words.

_Have Faith_ indeed. At this point, after having been thrown over by all of heaven, Aziraphale suspects that possibly Crowley has more remaining faith then he does. (Not that Aziraphale has stopped believing in Her, or in Her Ineffable Plan, only he finds himself slightly unsure of where he stand sin the plan now, considering he’s most definitely been fired and is probably also staring his own execution in the face.)

Oh, dear. He wasn’t the only one either, was he?

~*~

Crowley had faith. Not in much, mind you. He believed in Her of course; the Fall wouldn’t have hurt nearly as much if he hadn’t, if he’d turned his back the way so many others had. He just was suspicious of Her motives, is all. It’s hard to stay the course when you can’t see your destination after all, so Crowley doesn’t feel particularly remorseful about taking the most circuitous, scenic route he can. Who know? A handful of humans, one Anti-Christ, and a couple hapless Celestial beings had just managed to successfully thwart and entire apocalypse. Maybe there was some merit to the idea that the Great Plan and the Ineffable Plan were two separate things. Or maybe the years of dithering and misbehaving and faffing about history with a bloody angel of all things that actually been Ordained By Her all along.

(Not that any of that would matter once both Hell and Heaven caught up to them. Crowley had no doubts that their deaths would be not swift but decidedly brutal.)

No, Crowley hadn’t depended on any sort of Godly backup in millennia. His faith was a little more jaded; the weary, world-worn cynicism of someone long since exhausted by living in the trenches. Aziraphale may cling to his optimism, but even that seemed to be wearing a bit thin, if his continued silence was any warning. Crowley huffed and topped up their glasses; either they’d drink enough to come up with a brilliant plan, or they’d get to enjoy to best booze his stash had to offer before they both met their respective ignominious ends.

Aziraphale lifted his refilled cup in the universal motion of toasting, before tipping it back a sight faster than he usually would. Crowley didn’t blame him. Hard to savour with the reaper’s scythe hovering about your head, after all.

_~*~_

Aziraphale faith used to be blind. He used to be utterly convinced of what was Good, and Just, and Fair; versus what was Bad, and Wrong, and Evil. But things are much more a multi-faceted fractal in shades of grey then he’d apparently considered. Or, more accurately, allowed himself to consider. It had always been easier to toe the party line, to convince himself that he was only upholding Her word, and spurning Temptation, then to admit to himself that too much of the world didn’t make sense, didn’t seem fair or just or good, despite what Heaven said. Easier than accepting that sometime, Crowley made a bit Too Much sense when he spoke about the injustices of the world, about the rigidity of Heaven, and Her plans. Easier that letting the weight of six thousand years of guilt and shame settle onto his shoulders; easier than the reality of honest introspection. 

(He should have listened to Crowley. He should have learned sooner, found his courage long ago. Alas, there is no escape from regret.)

Aziraphale intends to tell Crowley all of this, only the moment he opens his mouth the floor falls out from under his friend, (his accomplice, his partner,) and Crowley drops like a stone into the gaping maw of Hell. Frozen in shock for a moment too long, Aziraphale leaps forwards, reaching toward the demon who is reaching back, but their fingertips only brush gently and Crowley tumbles down, Aziraphale’s name on his lips with a desperation and fear that the angel had never heard from his before. 

Aziraphale has about three seconds to stumble back into the ottoman, heart in his throat, tears beginning to spill, before the room lights up like a spotlight turned to high, and he feels himself yanked upwards in an unceasing grasp. (He doesn’t gasp Crowley’s name out loud as he goes, but it echoes in the confines of his soul regardless.)

~*~

Crowley struggles, of course he does. He’s been struggling in some way, shape or form since the day he was sung into existence; even if some of those struggles had been more battles of the soul than physical, it still counted. Crowley would never have gone to his death with dignity, not when fighting was still a valid option. Shrieking and squirming and curses in languages both dead and alive, Crowley makes it as hard as he can on his captors as they drag him down the narrow dim hallway. He tries to bite, to kick, to turn into a snake and slither away, but there are too many hands and he’s bound both body and powers alike. He hurls both invectives and elbows like it’s going out of style, but the best he can do is slow down his inevitable progression. The trial is a farce, of course it is, everyone know she’s guilty as charged. (Crowley would do it again, a thousand times more, no regret, no remorse. The world lives, and one demon dies? That sounds like a more than fair trade.)

(Crowley tries hard not to think about the Angel that’s probably dying too.)

Michael stands to the side, holy water in hand, perfect and demure and smoothly professional if you ignored the gleam of satisfaction in her eyes. Crowley spares a moment to wonder then, if she was here, who was upstairs delivering the hellfire. He then strangles that thought (_dead dead dead_) because he can’t and won’t’ think of Aziraphale now; he can’t bear the comfort of his angel’s name nor the agony of his grief. He watches the minor demon dissolve in the bath mutely with a placid, sick sort of horror; his face bone white and skin clammy and panic singing hymns under his skin. He’s drug forward, the distance between him and death closing like both inches and miles simultaneously, frozen on the cusp of tumbling into the tub of certain death for one long, terrible moment. On that precipice, Beelzebub’s and Hastur’s and Michael’s glee and anticipation apparent in the very air, Crowley soul howls.

Like a terrified child, he calls out, only once, to the only person left who could help him now. He screams into the ether for his creator, his mother; a single sob, begging for mercy. He knows She never answers, but he’s never once doubted that She listens.

His last thoughts drift to Aziraphale, and so with love and anguish in his heart, Crowley Falls.

~*~

Struggling is worthless. Not that it’s any comfort acknowledging it, but Aziraphale is well past the point of clinging to any lies, even the soothing ones. He lets Uriel and Sandalphon manhandle him down the long, too-bright white hallways. There no sense in fighting; he’d never overcome and both and Archangel and the Destroyer of Sodom and Gomorrah. At least he can be graced with a small modicum of dignity in his last moments. The room he’s brought too is large; a penthouse suite of glass and metal. Aziraphale used to find the design of Heaven clean and orderly; now it feels empty and cold. The column of Hellfire is already burning, demonic heat seeping malevolently into the air. (Aziraphale tries hard not the think about Crowley; he’s seen what holy water can do to demons, and it doesn’t bear thinking about. He’d rather remember the peaceful, happy moments they had together then imagine his friend’s agony.)

Aziraphale is slightly perturbed by the fact that they expect him to walk into the fire on his own, but really, what choice does he have? He can’t run, he can’t hide, and there’s nothing left waiting for him back on Earth even if he did somehow manage to get away. Crowley is lost to him, doubtless already dead. God is as silent as She has been since the Garden. But yesterday a ragtag group of strangers, human and non-human alike, saved the world, and that there is something that can give him hope.

Aziraphale has doubted his orders, he’s doubted his own strength, doubted human endurance, a thousand million tiny little doubts over his many long years, but never once has he doubted that there is a Purpose, a Plan, even one he doesn’t understand. One Angel, and one Demon may die, but it’s not a sacrifice made in vain or with resentment. This is possible the last Good, Fair and Just thing they could ever do for the world they’d loved. With this in mind, Aziraphale steps toward the fire, shoulders back, eyes fixed forward. He may not understand it, but it happened, and it happened the way it did for a reason. (And no one will know if he takes a moment to mourn his and Crowley’s lost lives.) Sending one last, fond thought to the memory of his most beloved person, Aziraphale lets the corner of his mouth tilt up in a defiant grin as he spreads his arms to embrace his death.

(Crowley had always had enough faith for the both of them, after all. Saving the world had been his idea, after all, and Aziraphale had always believed in Crowley.)

~*~

Crowley has lived many years, and can honestly say he’s never seen Aziraphale cry the way he did when the angel entered the bookstore to find Crowley alive and intact and waiting for him. They embrace as they never have before, clumsy with their relief and joy. (If Crowley is crying too, well he doesn’t have to admit it. Aziraphale will never mention it again anyways.) It’s a long, cathartic moment; the two of them cleaved together, arms and hands and wings gripping tight. Eventually, as all things do, it ends and they step back, wiping tears from wet faces and clearing throats thick with emotion. They settle soon after into comfortable, familiar chairs. Tea is made and poured, cups held tightly by still-shaking hands. They are silent for many extended moments; words not necessary or wanted.

At some point though, the silence breaks.

“I had faith.” Crowley says glasses off but eyes still downcast, apparently inspecting the rug for the meaning of life. “In Her, I mean, at the end. I still did, even all this time. Thought I’d lost it, to be honest.” He chuckles a bit humorously, and Aziraphale understands. “That must have been what did it, like the prophecy said. Have Faith.”

Aziraphale nods; it make perfect sense. “Lucky for us, then, I should think.”

“Well, I should think it’s lucky, finding myself with surprising new depths. You though, shouldn’t have had a moments worry about you. You’re an Angel, comes with the territory.” Crowley aims for Casual, and yet somehow misses it by a mile and hits Sincere instead. It quirks another small grin out of Aziraphale, to see him so raw and genuine.

“No, my dear. It wasn’t my faith in Her, I don’t think.” Crowley’s eyes snap to his, ethereal Blue meeting Occult Yellow without hesitation or barriers for the first time since they’d reunited in the restored bookshop. “No Crowley, it wasn’t my faith in Her that saved me. It was my faith in you.”

(Crowley does not cry again, he definitely doesn’t; but if he had than Aziraphale would have rewarded him with the gentle dignity of holding his hand until Crowley was done.)

~*~

“Faith is the bird that feels the light and sings when the dawn is still dark.”   
― Rabindranath Tagore


End file.
